Twenty
Irene and Joan picked Frances up at the Dallas Fort Worth airport, then waited outside the gates of a paid parking lot off the airport property, where they’d decided to park Edie’s sports car.
“Fifty thousand cars parked in and around the airport. Can you imagine?” Frances asked, reading her phone. “No one will notice Edie’s car.”
“Lord,” Joan said. She was leaning forward, over the steering wheel. “They may not notice her car, but they will definitely notice Edie.”
Frances looked up. Edie had just stepped off a parking bus and was striding toward them.
She dressed in a pure white pantsuit, her hair a sleek bob, her face nearly covered with enormous designer sunglasses, a designer bag draped over one arm, a matching designer carry-on bag behind her.
Irene hopped out to help her load her Louis Vuitton luggage into the trunk.
Edie climbed in the back seat next to Frances.
“Do you have a towel? I’m afraid to sit on this … leather.”
“I do not have a towel, the car is clean, and really, Edie, are you trying to get attention, or is it just really that hard for you to turn down the bright lights?”
Edie reached for her sunglasses with a hand glittering in jewels. “What are you talking about?”
“I am talking about the fancy clothes.” Joan put the car in gear and began to drive. “I thought we were all on the same page about being inconspicuous.”
Edie glanced down at her togs and picked a piece of lint or dirt from her pant leg. “I’m sorry, it’s all I have. I don’t dress in middle-class casual.”
“We’ll fix that,” Joan muttered.
They drove about forty minutes north and then pulled into the parking lot of a ubiquitous Motel 6 off the massive Dallas freeway.
“You have got to be kidding,” Edie said, peering at the rundown location.
“Did you think we were going to stay at the Four Seasons?” Irene pulled a sun hat on.
“Stay here. I’ll get the room keys.” She got out and walked briskly through the lobby doors.
When she came back, she directed Joan around to the backside of the motel.
Across the parking lot was a row of warehouses.
Two semi rigs were parked along the fence, lengthwise.
The only other vehicles were a few heavy-duty pickup trucks and a couple of small sedans.
“This doesn’t look safe,” Frances said, peering out the window. “Anyone could attack us back here and no one would hear us scream.”
“Do you prefer to be safe, or hidden?” Joan asked.
She didn’t wait for Frances to answer—she got out and walked up to a door, waved a key in front of the pad, and opened it.
Irene was right behind her, opening the room next to the one Joan had entered.
Frances and Edie, still in the back seat, a little slow on the uptake, looked at each other.
“I forgot how frugal Irene is,” Frances said. “And how no-nonsense Joan is.”
“I forgot how much I hate anything below first class,” Edie said.
They grabbed their things and went into the room Joan had entered.
Irene soon joined them, hopping onto one of the beds without concern for where the threadbare comforter had been or who it had covered.
Frances noted that the room smelled like someone had cooked in here.
Edie went into the bathroom and returned with a towel, which she spread at the foot of one bed. She sat gingerly.
“Get used to it, Edie,” Irene said. “There aren’t going to be any Taj Mahal stays this week.
And besides, Motel 6 is great for us. You would not believe how fast they turn these rooms over.
Everyone is just passing through, which means a day or two out, no one is going to remember seeing four female senior citizens. ”
“They’ll remember that car,” Edie said.
“It’s a classic,” Joan said proudly. “But on its last legs. I’ve been trying to get Mama to let it go for years.”
“Why didn’t we think to rent a car?” Frances asked.
“Because we don’t want a record, and trust me, you will appreciate the roominess of that vehicle when it is said and done,” Joan said, pointing to the door, and presumably, the Cadillac parked just outside.
“Wait here.” She went out again, but came back struggling with two black trash bags.
She dumped one, then the other, on a bed.
Clothes spilled out and over the bed, some falling on the floor.
It looked like Joan had stolen someone’s laundry.
“All right, kids. Choose your antiquing outfit.”
“Our what?” Frances picked up a T-shirt that was emblazoned with a large, quilted patchwork heart on the front.
“We’re going to dress like we are four seniors on our way to shop for antiques.”
Frances looked at the assortment of clothes. There were jeans and capris, cardigans, hoodies, and T-shirts.
“Where did you get all of this?” Edie asked, standing up to have a better look.
“My mom,” Joan said. “She hits the Goodwill bulk sales, buys used clothing by the pound, then cleans them, sorts them, and resells them on eBay. It’s a racket and she’s making a killing.”
“Genuis,” Edie muttered. She picked up a pair of denim capris. The waist was elastic. She dropped them. “Fortunately, I will never be so old that I would wear these clothes.”
“Newsflash, you are that old,” Irene said.
“Maybe, but I don’t dress like this,” Edie said.
Frances didn’t say it, but neither did she. This was the clothing of senior living—elastic waists and comfortable shoes. She would rather be dead than wear these clothes. Just her luck, she would be.
“Are you kidding me?” Joan said. “Have your designer togs gone to your brain? We don’t want anyone noticing us, Edie.
” She grabbed a short-sleeve, button-up shirt with kittens dancing around the collar and aggressively tossed it at Edie.
“It’s called a disguise. It’s a cloak of invisibility, because I guaran-damn-tee you that no one is going to look twice at four old women dressed like this.
Also, you’re going to wear a wig. Your hair looks too much like an expensive blowout. ”
Edie put hand to her head. “Because it is an expensive blowout.”
Joan reached into another bag and withdrew a wig of short, silver curls, which she also hardballed at Edie.
“Hey!” Edie said, catching it.
“Listen up, ladies. Edie, if you go in your fancy designer clothes, and Irene shows up like a professor from Hogwarts, and Frances looks like she might be running a marathon later, and me, Black with long braids? Everyone is going to notice us. Everyone. So, choose an outfit. Remember, we’re going for bargain basement shopper.
Antique lover. Not the kind of antique we would steal, but like, a frog cookie jar from the sixties.
An old butter churn. You’re from a small Midwest town and you’ve been dying for a pie safe ever since your youngest son was born, okay? Blend, blend, blend.”
“Okay,” Edie said. “I get it. Blending.”
Frances sorted through the clothes that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, bleach, and maybe formaldehyde, and came up with a pair of mom jeans, the quilted heart T-shirt, a Kansas City Chiefs windbreaker, and a short brown wig.
They pulled on the clothes they found, adding and subtracting, but once they were satisfied, they looked around at each other. And burst into laughter.
Edie began to prance around the room in khaki capris that were too big for her, a white T-shirt under the collared shirt with the kittens on the collar, and the short, silver wig. Frances marveled at the change in her. “You look like you should be working a checkout lane somewhere.”
“Watch this,” Edie said, and began to march across the room. Her hips did not sway as they normally did—she looked like she was marching off to grab some kid up by the collar and toss them over her lap. They all howled at her antics.
“Check this out,” Irene said. She had picked a striped T-shirt with jeans, sensible sneakers, a white brimmed hat, and a tote that said MY BEST FRIENDS ARE BOOKS.
“Book club!” Frances cried with delight.
Joan had pulled her hair up into bun, had a white wrap around her head, and wore a blue knit dress with white piping that matched her white tennis shoes. “What are you supposed to be?” Edie asked.
“Obviously a church lady,” Joan said. “At least I don’t look like Dora the Explorer like Franny.”
“I think it works,” Edie said, taking in their outfits. “I think we will blend in just fine with half the senior women in America.”
“Just one last thing,” Joan said. She reached into a small bag she carried and withdrew what looked like a credit card. She held out to Edie. “Welcome to girl gang 2.0, Blanche Neverseaux.”
“What the hell?” Edie took the card and looked at it. She looked up at Joan. “You did this?”
“Say hello to Wilma Thinstone and Holly Gomighty. I am Mariah Berry.”
“But if anyone sees these, they will immediately know they are fake.”
“You’d be surprised,” Frances said dryly. “I’ve already had to present myself as Wilma Thinstone and no one batted an eye.”
“It’s a digital world, Edie,” Joan said. “The only thing anyone looks at an ID for is the picture. Trust me when I say no one is memorizing the details.”
Edie looked at the license. A smile began to turn up the corners of her mouth. “You’ve still got it, you old broad.”
“Thank you,” Joan said, and curtsied. “But I figured one of you would object to the names, so I made different ones.” She tossed three cards onto the bed.
Frances picked hers up. “This says Bonnie Parker. Bonnie and Clyde, right?”
“Yep,” Joan said.
“Mine says Belle Starr,” Edie said. “Likewise a famous criminal.”
“A thief who died a violent death,” Joan said with a smile.
“Ooh, you are pissed at me.” Edie laughed. “Who are you, Irene?”
She picked up her ID. “Cheng Ping.”
“Notorious smuggler of Chinese people,” Joan said.
“I’m not Chinese,” Irene protested.
“I’m sorry, babe, but there weren’t a lot to choose from in your race category.”
“That hurts, coming from you. Who are you?” she asked, indicating with her chin the ID Joan still held.